The Quiet American
by Superkawaiifreak
Summary: As Alfred becomes a prominent nation, he is similarly introduced to the gent's way of solidifying international treaties: trade a kiss for a city, his body for a country. England, seeing all and ruling all seas, must watch Alfred fall so that he can be the one to pull him back up. Because sometimes you must lose all to gain one. Historical early 1800s, UsUk, M.


Disclaimer: I do not own APH.

AN: This is the Louisiana Purchase to the power of ten. I started it as something short, but I became way too involved with it (of course). Written for the wonderful **Zo One**! (She just doesn't know it yet.)

Important: There may be some historical inaccuracies, a.k.a., the Founding Fathers may have been sort of dead at this time. (Thanks to the anon who suggested that I state this.) However, I adore the thirteen men, so I threw them in here. If you can overlook that, we'll be friends.

Rated M for sex, cussing, and anything else that might engender repulsion… you know, if you're not into yaoi.

* * *

_1802. New Orleans._

"I find it _simply_ charming…" Up perked Spain's illustrious orbs as he plucked the flame from his six-place candle holder sitting atop the rust-colored tablecloth. In his private chambers, now dimly lit, only illuminated by a powerful light from the two men sitting in the room, Spain delicately shook out his fingers, wiping the residual black ash on his pants. Only five candles flicked, but the amber light danced playfully atop his bronze eyelashes and amplified the Spanish fire in his eyes.

"You find what 'charming,' exactly, uh—Spain, sir?" American stuttered. Wrapped messily around his head, looping beneath his bangs and across his forehead, America's leather headband wriggled as the blonde nervously bobbed his head. He ran his fingers atop his pants, inwardly cringing at the fact that he didn't pick the nice clothes to wear to Spain's mansions. His brown leather boots cackled as his foot repetitively hit the deep, cherry wood floor. He, too, noticed Spain's altered disposition, and guessed that it was due to the awkwardness of him talking about New Orleans' port.

Spain stepped closer to America, his hands slithering across the oil-scented linen paper strewn about the circular table. Handfuls of ink-stained paper, detailing of the New Orleans deal between Spain and America, lay messily atop the cloth beside two quills, two bottles of half-filled black ink, and the Spaniard's discarded jacket. He lowered his olive-skinned face, halting his lips once they reached America's cheekbone. Tingling goose bumps burst across America's neck, back, shoulders, arms. A faint blush dusted across his creamy complexion. Spain chortled softly, bringing his smooth hand to the blonde's chest. Languidly, he caressed the black tie that hanged from America's neck, running his fingertips against the nation's body; gently, teasingly, Spain fingered the buttons of the Yankee's tight-fitting shirt, eliciting a quickened breath from America.

Spain lowered his lips to the boy's earlobe, and very, very lowly, murmured, "I find it simply charming," he fluttered his eyes against the blonde's temple, "that you felt so _passionately_ for your precious New Orleans port that you chose to pay me a personal visit in attempt to, once again, redeem it." Spain regressed, moving his face directly in front of America's. Pressing their foreheads together, Spain raised an eyebrow. "Correct me if I am incorrect, little America?"

America narrowed his eyes and brought his chest forward, cleverly giving Spain a better feel for his muscular body. The Spaniard smirked and gave America a light squeeze.

"You are not incorrect, Spain," he began, attempting to appear mature and diplomatic. "Being that the New Orleans port is integral to, uh, merchant trading and the like, I saw that it was of the utmost importance to visit you, personally, to stress the importance of New Orleans to all of the United States." America placed his hand atop Spain's, wrapped his fingers around the other's, and slowly rose to the older nation's height, keeping eye contact. His black tie still clutched between Spain's fingers, America leaned into Spain, pressing his hips into the other's, sexy, suggestively, slowly. The room's temperature rose as their breathing grew heavier, the air more humid, and the candlelight more robust.

"I see…" the Spaniard remarked softly, staring at America's hand. "You have played nicely, America—I will give you that." His green eyes shot up. "Yet," he responded to the blonde's movement, rocking his hips in sync to the other, "as I am sure you have yet to learn, when one becomes a nation, ceding ports and territories and land and, even sharing natural resources, requires more than a handful of official documents and messy signatures between two countries." Spain lifted his other arm to America's face. "I forget," he began, trailing his hand up to feel America's leather headband, "that you were once England's. Long ago, he used to wear this type of… Dress." Spain easily slipped off the headpiece and casually tossed it on the adjacent table. Slightly alarmed, America's hand shot up to his head, confirming that his headband had been removed.

Perplexed, he started, "Why—why did you do that, Spain?" His curiously blue eyes grew wide with wonder, at which Spain chuckled, finding the youthfulness of the new nation to be irresistibly charming.

Spain leaned back, bringing America's body with him, so he sat atop the circular table. "You claimed to have desired the New Orleans port that I own. That is why you have graced me with your presence. Yes?"

Adjusting himself to Spain's sitting physique, America danced his fingers along the older nation's thigh; in a bout of garnering dominance, he then pulled Spain closer to him, using his hand to wrap the Spanish nation's leg around his hips. Darkly, America gave a simple response: "Yes."

Spain chuckled. "I have just one more paper to sign, and it is all yours, America." The brunet slipped his arm behind America's neck; black tie still in hand, Spain yanked America's tie toward him, the blonde's lips centimeters from his own. "If you would really like that precious Louisianan port, follow my lead, then, dear."

America's azure eyes widened and he opened his mouth to question what Spain meant by that ambiguous comment, but before he could vocalize his thoughts, Spain took the opportunity of having Alfred F. Jones standing in front of him, alone, with an open mouth and in want of something he owned, and seized the blonde's chiseled face and kissed him full on the lips. America's heart palpitated. Spain wrapped his legs tightly around America's, and began to aggressively unbutton his shirt. While America was initially shocked, he alas understood that in order to acquire the port, he would have to barter something only available through bodily contact—himself. At least, a part of himself.

Spain ravaged the Yankee, never having tasted the salty tobacco combination on a man before. "You've never done this, America," he stated plainly, in between his nibbling of the blonde's lips. Spain finally unbuttoned all of America's shirt and let his hands roam freely across the nation's powerful, smooth chest. His eyes snapped open to view America's astonishing physique; Spain shook his head, silently perplexed, wondering how England could have let this extraordinary being flee from his grasp. "You know how I can tell you've never done this before, America?"

Dazed and more aroused than he'd been in ages, America dreamily opened his eyes, basking in Spain's arms. "No, Spain, I don't. I don't know how you can tell." His eyeglasses perched precariously atop the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked, his shirt ruffled, and his tie loose. Spain smiled and sat taller. Angling his chin toward America, he gazed lustily into the nation's eyes. Alfred dipped down and caught Spain's lips with his own, and moved his tongue in and out of his mouth. Spain pulled on Alfred's lower lip, lightly teasing it with sharp nibbles. Alfred moaned into Spain's mouth, sending vibrations down his teeth. Reluctantly, Spain slowly pulled away from Alfred's lips, emitting eager, edgy groans.

"I know because you haven't said my real name once." Spain grinned. "Say my name, Alfred." A thin sheen of bewilderment coated America's face and he was forced to look down, embarrassed. Spain began, "What is it? You dislike being called Alfred?" He thought for a moment, then grinned. "Ah, no it's not that—I get it. The last nation to address you as 'Alfred' was England, wasn't it? Now, that's a bit funny."

Perking up, Alfred responded, "wait—you were right about England. But why is that funny?"

Spain chuckled. He picked up the blonde's hands, brought them to the bottom frays of his navy blue shirt, and guided the boy's hands along his toned abdomen. Spain pulled his shirt up his body in one swift motion, and America's hands continued to encircle the Spaniard's golden-colored stomach.

"It is funny," Spain began to loosen his pants belt, "because what you're about to do to _me_," America's breath caught in his throat, "is what _he's_ always wanted to do to _you_." Spain unlatched his khaki pants and caught America's lips in a deep kiss, licking his perfectly supple lips, drawing a strangled moan from the blonde. Spain pulled back from America's lips with an audible puckering sound left to linger in the air. He brought his emerald eyes back to America's blues, and then grinned. "However, it is mainly funny because the whole damn _world_ knows that."

Caught in a world spin, America, very slowly, registered all of what Spain revealed. "Wait—what, exactly, am I going to do to you…? I—I thought you were going to give me your final signature-now that you've, um, stripped and felt me up and everything…" America trailed off, lips still swollen. Spain sweetly shook his head.

"America—say my name."

"Wait…"

"Say my name, America. Do you want New Orleans?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Say my name, then."

"… Antonio."

Spain frowned. "But Alfred, it has to be better than that."

Hesitating for a moment, Alfred bent down and nuzzled Spain's neck, his lips placed in the crevice between the earlobe and neck, lightly ghosting over the Spaniard's skin. Goose bumps sprang across Spain's neck. He pushed his body against America's, their sweaty bodies rocking into each other, gaining heat, gaining momentum. Alfred brought his hand to other's neck and lightly caressed the olive-toned skin, gentle. He kissed Spain's neck in succession, breathing out short, hot gusts of air over his neck, using his free hand to rub Spain's inner thigh. "Mm, _Antonio_…"

Eyes rolling in their sockets, Antonio groaned loudly, and closed the gap between their faces once more, giving soupy kisses to Alfred, making a trail of spit from his chin to his collarbone. Moaning, Alfred ran his fingers through Antonio's chestnut hair, pulling him closer, feeling his erection against his own. Spain leaned back further, his back nearly knocking the inkbottles to the floor; he unzipped his slacks, and let his own hand fall to his erection, rubbing it in languid, hard, strokes.

"_Alfred—damn_, you really are… astounding." Spain reached his free hand over to Alfred's trousers. He unfastened them easily and America let them fall to the floor in a quiet meeting of cloth and wood, breathing heavily in anticipation. He grinded his hips harder against Spain's, and both of them let out long, throaty moans. Spain wrapped his taut arm around America's neck, running his fingernails down the Yankee's sweaty back. Alfred groaned, becoming harder. "Alfred—I want you to make me cum." Spain licked Alfred's collarbone, making Alfred shiver. He grabbed the blonde's hand and guided it slowly to his throbbing region.

However, Alfred was an acute dominatrix of sorts—although he damn well enjoyed Spain's toned body and mouth and hips, his apprehension kicked in when Spain insinuated that it would be _him_, America, to be the one to do most of the… _work_. He was cool with the whole 'sexual-favors-complete-the-deals-between-nations- now' type of thing, but if he had to be the submissive one, well… No territory was really worth _that_ much to him. At least, not that tiny port, however important it may be.

"Wait—Spain, just hold on a sec."

Annoyed, Antonio opened his eyes to see America. "Yes, Alfred?"

The blonde's breathing returned to normal as he registered what was happening. He scratched his head. "Uh, well—um, well I don't know how to say this without sounding weird or awkward or whatever, so… Do—do you think that _I'm_ going to blow _you_? Because I thought it would be the other way around…" Alfred laughed nervously, looking around the room.

Spain halted all movement, dumbfounded. This was past national immaturity. It was now all on ego. Slightly irritated, slightly humored, he began, "Dear America—yes, yes, I was under the impression that it would be you to do the deed." He shut his eyes, mouth twitching. "Alfred, as a country whose lifespan is less than fifty years, and also whose national unity is, at best, questionable, it is to be expected that, ah, _you_ would be the one to… you know… in order to settle this trade."

Still laughing nervously, Alfred threw his hands over his face and confessed: "Spain, I'm not going to blow you."

"Are—are you serious?" Spain visibly deflated. "What about—what about New Orleans? Your American, Yankee people? What—why not?"

"Uh… I just... Don't… I don't do that.. I don't want to be seen as submiss—"

Spain's eyes widened.

"—Nevermind. I just don't do that. Sorry." America began grabbing at random garments thrown about the room, assuming that the clothing all belonged to him. "So, uh, haha, you can just toss those papers about the New Orleans port, I guess! I'll just go talk to France or someone about Louisiana…"

Still in shock, Spain raised an eyebrow. "You know, America, France will expect the same from you. Maybe more, if you know what—"

"Nah, I'm sure it'll be fine! Thanks, though."

_Idiot._

"Bye, Spain! Er, Antonio!" Alfred gathered up all the clothes on the floor, straightened his glasses, and marched with increased speed out of Spain's office, metaphorically suffering from a heart attack due to his accidental 'almost-having-to-blow-Spain' humiliation. The door slammed loudly, and Antonio was left sitting on the table, still hard, still breathing heavily, still half-naked, and puzzled. His sensory glands buzzed in excitement. He sighed. The meek candlelight flickered tauntingly at him. He quickly glanced around the room, searching for anything Alfred may have forgotten, but instead realized that Alfred had actually _taken_ all of the clothes. Alfred had even taken Spain's favorite coat that had been thrown on the table—but, damn, that Alfred F. Jones… Spain blushed.

Then there was a knock, a bit loud, on Antonio's door.

Hopeful, he wondered if Alfred had changed his mind in regards to New Orleans. Not bothering to find another shirt to don, Spain pulled his trousers back to their normal position, and sauntered over to the oak door and gripped the brass knob with just a slight fluttering of apprehension. His flushed cheeks spoke volumes of the activity that took place moments ago, and those rosy cheeks coupled with his semi-nudity screamed that Antonio had either had sex, or almost had sex.

He threw the door open, arms wide and inviting. "Ah! I knew you'd change your—"

It was England.

"Good evening, Antonio," England nodded politely.

"Oh! H-hello, Arthur, um, it is good to see you!" Spain spat out hurriedly. "What brings you here today? Did you have business with me?" _Good lord._

Sensing that there was a thick tension hanging about Antonio, England commented, "Not official business," he scanned the man, rolling his eyes, "but it certainly appears that you have business to attend to. Must I come by another time?" the Briton inquired.

Hair mussed, cheeks a deep cherry color, and his skin still coated with sweat and Alfred's spit, Antonio nearly shouted, "No, no! You are absolutely fine, wonderful, even—you can stay, you can stay, it is absolutely fine!" England narrowed his eyes. He stepped into Antonio's room and immediately found the scent, redolent of sex-or-almost-sex, wafting through the air. Humidity. Extreme heat resonated from the walls of the spacious room; the rose-colored curtains were draped over the windows so that the moonlight fell in silvery pieces against the shaded wooden floor, a leather piece of something lay on the silky-looking tablecloth, and the ebbing movement of the candlelight all signaled that _something_ had taken place. Disgusted, England wrinkled his nose, and began to walk with more force so that the echoes of his boots sounded throughout the room as a show of him being the superior.

Eager for England to _not_ discover the contents of the documents atop the table, Spain began, "So, Arthur—you are visiting me on a Thursday night for what purpose, exactly?"

Arthur glanced at Antonio, calculating. "Ah. Well, you see, love, that idiot, France, told me to come by your place when I spoke to him last week." Spain's face drained of all color. "I had been telling France, over a cup of tea, that I found it quite interesting that Alfred—or, as you likely address him, America—expressed so much dedication for that New Orleans port of yours in the Frenchmen's Louisianan territory. As soon as I said this, France simply laughed, and told me that it might serve me well to come here on this particular night at this particular time." England walked menacingly toward Spain. He obviously had some thoughts as to what may have been occurring. "Do you have any idea as to why this might be?" Arthur tilted his head, predatorily, and flexed his arms.

Spain glanced between England and the table, attempting to swiftly walk to retrieve the documents without him suspecting anything about his strange behavior. "No—none at all, Arthur!" Spain laughed, "Just Francis pulling your strings…" he trailed off, making a beeline for the table. England noticed.

"Why the rush, darling?" England swooped in and picked up the documents. Spain immediately about-faced and began walking toward the door. For about ten seconds, England stared at the papers, only registering one thing: the signature of Alfred F. Jones. The smell. The shirtless Spain. The nervousness.

"Antonio, darling—" a glorious smile fluttered to Arthur's twitching face as he spoke in a flat tone, laced with the murderous intent to harm. "Where the devil do you think you're going, love?"

Alfred always did wonder how England broke his hand.

* * *

_1802-1803._

"Alfred F. Jones… Correct me if I am wrong, but you are a virgin, correct, dear boy?"

Alfred, mid-chew, choked on the British-baked scone he was eating. Wild-eyed, he grabbed Arthur's tea to force the food down his throat. "'Scuse me, Arthur?"

Blushing, Arthur pulled at his shirt collar, focusing intently on his saucer. "Yes, well—I suppose it is a bit out of character for me to ask," he averted his eyes to meet Alfred's, "but it still stands as a legitimate question."

Jumbled, Alfred placed the teacup back in Arthur's saucer and let out a defeated sigh. "Well, not that it's any of your business… No, I'm not."

Arthur inhaled sharply. "Good god, Alfred!" He eyed America incredulously, an overpowering wave of listlessness washing over him. "May I inquire of—of, well, the circumstances? You are only seventeen years of age, love…"

Silence ensued.

"Alfred?"

"Aw, I'm just messing with you, Britain!" Alfred laughed loudly and Arthur blushed. "Yeah, me—it's not like I've 'found' anyone who I've even _wanted _to do it with! Ha!" He sent England a heart-melting smile. "You're weird sometimes, Arthur." America popped another horribly burnt scone into his mouth, not registering that he was consuming sustenance made by England.

"Yes, well… Quite right… Wait," Arthur grabbed Alfred's shoulder, dramatically as usual. "What do you mean that you haven't 'found' anybody?"

Eyes as wide as buttons, America stared dumbly at England for a few moments, and then his face broke into a sunny smile. "Well, I guess here is what I should've said." He looked up from his chair to the green ivy climbing the white pillars of Arthur's backyard gazebo. "It's not like the person I'd _want_ to do it with would even consider me—and I don't really see myself with anybody else, you know, so I'm probably just destined to be sexless forever!" He laughed, "and it's a shame, too… I mean, someone as good-looking as me ought to get going as soon as possible! Am I right or am I right, England?" America sipped Britain's Earl Grey tea with great humor, completely unaware of England's burning red visage and barely audible murmurs of him insulting the Yankee's rash honesty.

* * *

_1803. Vente de la Louisiana._

Alfred removed his hat as he looked out on the beautiful expanse of the Versailles Palace, stifling the need to wipe his brow. The blinding sunlight shimmered on the water, and the insulated heat of the starched button-up shirt paired with the grey suit made the water appear even more appealing. Alfred yearned to hop into the fountains to eschew the summer heat, but that would eradicate any diplomatic legitimacy of his if Francis Bonnefoy were to see him swimming in the Versailles Palace's fountains. Childish.

"Bonjour, my beautiful _Amerique_," greeted Francis from behind America. Dressed in a flamboyant lavender robe, Francis laid his spiny fingers atop Alfred's shoulder. "You can take a dip, if you'd like." He offered, beckoning to the silvery water.

Wide-eyed, Alfred smiled. "I really, really do appreciate the offer, France—but I'm afraid that I'll have to turn you down."

Shaking his blonde locks, France sighed. "Ah, what I wouldn't give to see a fit American with water trickling down his skin…" He smiled, "no matter. Please," he held out his arm for Alfred, "follow me." Alfred tentatively took France's arm.

"To where, exactly, France?"

"Ah, you will see, mon cheri. You are here in regards to Louisiana, non?" the Frenchman hummed.

Alfred gripped France's arm more tightly. "Yes—yes, that is true. I'm here for, uh—business. Official business." He met France's brown-lashed eyes, feeling an ominous seal of fate as the European winked at him.

"Is that so?" he laughed, "well, in lieu of zis official business, may I inquire something of you?"

Suspiciously, Alfred eyed France. "Uh—y-yes, please, go right ahead."

"This expanse of land… It encompasses New Orleans; you are aware of this, correct?"

"That is correct." Alfred fluttered his hand nervously against France's forearm.

Deviously, France ventured, "and is it true that you failed to pass a treaty with Spain regarding this port, and is why you are here to speak to me now?" He forcefully pulled America toward the green belt, away from the gurgling fountains.

"That is true, also, France." Alfred perked up. "If I may ask, why are you so interested?"

"My friend," France said, "I know everything," he whispered, "and with that—be aware that, ah, so does your _king_." Alfred froze. "And know that with _this_ transaction, the details will not be exploited, but your actions will be known, expounded upon, even…" France halted and took America's hands in his own. "_Mon cheri_, you must realize—you aren't a territory anymore. If you so desire anything on an international level, there will be more involvement than you would have ever imagined…" he squeezed America's hands endearingly, "and there are also reputational consequences. It is at your own volition that you decide if, say, _four cents for a single acre_, is well worth the consequence."

-0-

Alfred F. Jones prepared himself for this French undertaking. Despite what he told Spain—that he didn't think there would be any strings attached to a deal with France—Alfred knew, instinctively, that now, as a country, treaties involved far more than the dip of a quill in black ink. Alfred F. Jones dressed to kill. He implored Arthur, specifically, to starch his favorite white, collared shirt for this current mission, though he did not dare to tell the Briton of the mission's integrity; he bought gold-dipped cuff links, learned how to tie an Eldridge knot, and picked out the crispest grey suit he could find in Paris. The sleeves fit snugly on his shoulders, which made Alfred appear more muscular than he actually was, and his sleek, black dress shoes from the Parisian market added an inch to his height. He cleaned his wire-rimmed glasses so that even the glint of sunlight made his watery eyes sparkle. He had neatly brushed his hair to the side so that the longer portion of his bangs lay side-swept across his eyes. Alfred had also been using a sage, cucumber, and mint-based body lotion that allegedly lent itself to the aromatic appeal of the wearer. He shaved every other day so that his stubble was only noticeable if a person were to press his or her face against his own. Intimate. Daring. He began wearing more petroleum-based chap stick for softer lips. He had been jogging around the White House, in sweats, in order to lose water weight and to give the appearance of lean, well-toned legs.

France noticed.

"Because of Napoleon's business in Haiti, I am more willing to just sell you the whole of Louisiana—that Napoleon won't be able to handle both of those strips of land." France fiddled with a piece of his blonde hair. "He really won't. So you can just purchase the whole, if you'd like."

Alfred peered apprehensively at his files that Thomas Jefferson gave to him; they explicitly stated that he could only spend ten million dollars on Louisiana, and with that, he could only purchase the New Orleans delta… Alfred frowned, torn between following the Constitutionalist doctrine and following his gut instinct. Apprehensively, Alfred looked up to France, who sat across the glass table from him. He placed his file down. "Francis, for how much are you willing to sell your territory?"

France smiled lustily, bringing his hand to his chin, pondering. "Oh, if we are just talking business and papers and pragmatism, I will have to say twenty-five million…" France met Alfred's puzzled eyes. "Or," he leaned forward, grasping Alfred's hands, "we can, ahem—_comment dit-on?—negotiate_ that price down to fifteen million… And, I will, of course, add in the bonus that you'd have my allegiance, in the event that you somehow find yourself in an untimely war."

Touched, Alfred grinned, "Really, France? You'd give your loyalty to me, if needed?"

"_Amerique_," France batted his eyes at America, "dear, I would do anything if it meant aiding you."

America stood from his chair. The hall that France took them to was, oddly enough, the Hall of Mirrors. It seemed as though France had set up a meeting place—or rather, had ordered someone to place a rectangular glass table, a vase full of orchids, and two ornate chairs—at the end of the hall. It seemed, strangely, like a lot of work… but it was also slightly endearing. Alfred remembered, with distinction, what Spain had told him—France will likely want something in exchange for his generous offer of Louisiana to Alfred.

"How do you work?" Alfred inquired.

Caught off guard, France peered up at America. "How do you mean?"

"Do you prefer to sign everything now, or do you wait until after, or what?"

France chuckled smugly. He licked his lips. "Ah. I see how you mean." He, too, stood. "I prefer to just sign everything, to get all of the hard… Well, _difficult_, paperwork out of the way…"

America's stomach fluttered. A little nervously, he ventured, "well, all right then, France." He licked his lips.

"_Mon ami_, do not fret. I promise to be nice." He leaned over the table and glided his lips against Alfred's cheek. "And if you do try to leave with the papers and without completing your negotiation… Well, _mon petit lapin_, we are in a hall of mirrors. You cannot hide from me." Francis winked. Alfred gulped.

In no time at all, Francis Bonnefoy had torn Alfred's grey suit from his body, which peeled off his skin, sticky like glue, due to the excessive sweating. With the fact being that America had yet to satisfy any treaties in this particular manner, France darkly prowled the younger nation's body, and made sure to kiss, lick, bite, and suckle every inch of America's virgin skin. An uncouth smirk slithered its way onto France's mouth as he heard Alfred emit a wavering moan. Partially fueled by his intense envy of America and England's relationship, France lifted his face from kissing America's abdominals, peering lustfully into blue eyes.

"Am I everything you've ever dreamed of, _Amerique_?"

Blinded by France's electric touch, America relinquished himself, "… better, even."

France chuckled and kissed Alfred's lower abdomen, taking in the tobacco leaf scent of the youthful nation. His rock hard abs were warm beneath France's hungry lips. The Frenchman teasingly ran his fingertips across Alfred's hipbones; after hearing Alfred's constrained moan gargle from the back of his throat, he laboriously slid Alfred's trousers down his muscular and sweaty thighs.

"_Mon Dieu—you _are _substantièl_," France purred salaciously, causing Alfred to blush. "Blush not, mon cheri—you are stunning." Alfred chuckled nervously, apprehensively. He had never attempted to do _this_ with anyone else, not even England—it was all entirely new to him. Still, still, still feeling very _vulnerable_ but unfortunately also very turned on, Alfred's uneasiness began to slip. Once he felt France's hot wet mouth descend onto his dick, an onslaught of guilt cascaded over him… Because even though this sensation sent chills down his spine and despite France's full lips bobbing up and down the head of his cock, America's very vocal moans were punctuated, interrupted, by thoughts of what England would perceive from this situation. In between France sucking the head of his cock, he envisioned a thoroughly pissed off Briton scolding him for being so reckless, and for being so incompetent that he was forced to resort to sexually pleasing tactics to retrieve what he wanted, even if for the sake of his country and his country's international integrity. But, oh my _god_, France swirled his tongue over one of the thicker veins of Alfred's cock, and Alfred immediately bucked his hips skyward, a white-hot wave of ecstasy coursing through his blood. Although Alfred was responding, actually, quite well to him, France sensed a mental discourse within the younger nation; the thrusting of Alfred's hips into his cavernous mouth showed a lascivious intent, and the thick, sugar-sweet moans falling from Alfred appeared to be a result of unadulterated pleasure, yet France felt a strange disconnection with America. Smirking darkly as he felt America's balls tighten and felt the younger nation's hands tense in his tangled hair, France tantalizingly danced his tongue along the length of Alfred's cock, taking great satisfaction in that he had managed to make Alfred cum before Arthur had. For the time being, France couldn't have cared less if Alfred was one hundred percent present or not—really, to get the American in bed only required the simple wave of a possible acquisition of North American territory—Louisiana—in front of the boy's face. (Alfred finally came; France rose back to his feet and stripped himself of his lavender robe and brought Alfred's hand to his erection.) And that was it.

-0-

Alfred, sore and embarrassed, quickly pulled his pants back up to his hips, his fingers thrashing and his inhalations abrupt. He hadn't intended for matters to escalate so far—so fucking _fast_. He had heard about France's extreme, perpetually sexually aroused streak, but he had no idea that a tract of land would cost him his integrity.

France lazily stringed his robe together, humming a slow tune of oddly placed accidentals. He cast a sidelong glance at Alfred; he observed the blonde as he redressed himself.

"_Alfred, tu es bon?"_ the Frenchman inquired.

Slapping his hand atop the table, Alfred scooped up the France-America treaty. "Um, I don't speak French…" He nervously looked to the floor.

"I forget," he shook his head, "I apologize, _Amerique_. Are you doing… Well? You aren't in pain, are you?" France made his way over to America.

Smiling cryptically, Alfred stammered, backing away, "Y-yes, I'm fine—really!" he added as France overtly examined his body.

"Hmm…" Francis meditated. "Well, you have what you came here for. I suppose you are to tell President Jefferson of this Louisiana Purchase, _non_?" Alfred nodded.

"Yes, I'll tell him as soon as I arrive back at the mainland." America stated politely. "I'll be on my way now. Pleasure doing business with you, France." America offered his hand. "But France," he took ahold of the Frenchman's fingers and pulled the man closer, "please… Don't tell Britain." Alfred's eyes dropped to the floor.

France's initial shock morphed into a disappointed annoyance. He lightly shook his head. "Britain—that is who you are worried about, America?"

"Worried? You think I'm worried? No," he ran his hand through his hair, "I said not to _tell_ him—and you won't. I mean, obviously he will hear about this whole Louisiana thing, but that's all I want him to know for now." Seeing France's dubiousness, he added: "I—I'll be the one to tell him. I don't want him to hear about anything from you because you'll make it sound…" Alfred shook his head. "Just—just keep quiet about it. Haiti is closer to me than it is to you, France." His fierce blue eyes flickered.

France, taken aback by America's inexplicit threat, stared back. The light cascaded into the hall; France smiled ruggedly. He shook his head. "Spoken as the true underling of the British empire… _Touché, mon ami…" _he caught Alfred's narrowed eyes. "You can trust that my _lèvres_ will be sealed." France leaned forward and kissed America, firmly on the mouth, and dragged his tongue about the circumference of Alfred's wet, swollen, and nicely puckered lips.

* * *

_1806. Meriwether Lewis._

In the dark of the night, a wooden carriage rattled along the cobblestone streets of D. C. The coachman sat upright, a cup of warm black coffee stuffed between his knees, maintaining a steady eye on the street. A bit dim, the narrower of the streets that led to the White House had sparse gas lit lamps; most of them emitted a sheer yellow gleam. Britain, whose back was to the coachman's, could not find sleep. Perhaps it was the foul stench of the ponies' hooves or the constant rattling of the carriage or the occasional raucous that punctured the pair every now and then, but Britain could not—would not—allow himself the luxury to pacify his exhaustion.

It had been perplexing, lately, with America. After Britain had stepped back from the youth's ordeal with his territories facing danger from Bonaparte's schemes, America had somehow acquired the vast tract of Louisiana—from France, no less—and had embarked upon a whole cartographical excursion of the expanse. Spain, in regards to New Orleans and Florida, had allowed his annoyance to simmer; no Americans had attempted to swallow up Florida, save for Andrew Jackson, which was pleasing. The sun still shone from east to west and the Thames still reversed its flow from morning to night. His scones were still scorched and the rain hadn't stopped. Britain could find no flaw in the natural occurrences of the world lately, yet an inherent alteration in America became obvious when a telegram arrived in London that read: "Something is off in your area, because something is off in my area. Natives are restless, sailors disappearing, and decreased morale. Please be in D. C. by November 25th. Alfred." England had received that telegram at the end of October. Still a bit peeved from America's indulgent and officious attitude, though, he decided to leave a week early to the United States' capitol, to exercise his freewill.

"Sir," the coachman began, "it will only be about ten more minutes."

Startled, Britain snapped his eyes open. He flung his gaze at the driver. "Pardon?" His airy accent blew past his lips.

The coachman visibly relaxed his shoulders and let out a deep laugh. "Oh, you're not from around here, are you?" Britain placed his chin on his knuckles, sitting in an uncharacteristically lazy position.

Mildly curious, he retorted, "Oh, heavens no. I am not from this god-awful country." He looked to the glimmer of the moon above, finding an errant of purplish gleam. A sudden pressure befell his heart.

Eyeing the blonde curiously, "You think it's god-awful here?" he was silent for a few horses' trots. "You certainly are an interesting man. What's your name, if I may ask?"

"Oh—sir, you… You aren't familiar with who I am?"

"I'm not."

Softly, Britain smiled, still puzzled. "I'm… Arthur Kirkland." He adorned his face with a modest grin. The coachman narrowed his eyes and sealed his lips into a flat line. A few moments of empty air and moonlight passed.

"You're Arthur Kirkland." He looked behind himself briefly and eyed Arthur's clothing: the snug-fitting collared shirt, the leather boots, the royal purple jacket, and the upper-class look completed with a cravat. His extra clothing and toiletries for the trip sat in a wool bag beside his brown boots. "You…" the coachman smiled with a knowing glint in his eye. "Alfred certainly does you justice. Come," he motioned beside him, "sit up here beside me. It's much more comfortable. Your fancy boots won't get dirty up here, either."

Pleasantly surprised by the man's hospitality, Britain carefully slipped his legs into the seat adjacent to the man. "I'm afraid I didn't get your name, though, dear."

The coachman pulled up the reigns at a deep angle. He appeared distracted. "How many times… Go left, left, not right…" he shook his head. "Sorry about that. These damn horses—sometimes!" He reached for the coffee in between his knees with his free hand and brought the cold glass to his lips. "Gotta stay awake. Anyways," he placed the cup back down, "I'm Alexander. I usually don't make these trips to fetch people, but Alfred expressed a keen interest in that I, personally, pick you up from the docks. He just said you were someone 'really important.'" He snickered. "I actually live down from the bay, and before Alfred left to go lend support to Meriwether Lewis, he told me to keep an eye out for an imperialist-looking ship with white sails… I must say, you do know how to make an entrance." Alexander smiled.

"Ah, that would explain how there is transportation available for me despite the fact that I came a week early. Clever Alfred…"

"Can't say no to the boss!"

Britain tensed, a sinking feeling of realization finding him. "You… You're Alexander. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Alexander _Hamilton_?"

Alexander smiled. "I am. And now that I know who you are, this really is a strange situation—how careless of Alfred—but the revolution was years ago, old friend! Please, no hostilities?" His gray eyes were so full of genuine spirit and ferocity that Britain doubled back, for he realized that the Founding Fathers, including Alexander, learned how to appease former enemies from his own English leadership.

Arthur nodded, acquiescing. "Quite right. I do suppose it would be fruitless." He offered his hand. "So, if I may ask…" he looked to the cobblestone, sheepish. "Are you able to provide any further, uh, information as to why Alfred needed me here so quickly?"

The coachman processed his words. "Alfred expressed rapidity?" He again thought. "Well, we have been having trouble with British sailors and impressment… He mentioned something about the Essex Case," Alexander plopped his hand on Arthur's shoulder, "but in all honesty, sir, we are doing quite well. There are mild problems, yes, but none so large as to warrant a visit from a man of your stature."

The Briton relaxed under Alexander's hand, feeling a warmth of some sort coming from him. "Typical of Alfred…" he sighed, "well, even so, I suppose it will serve our diplomatic relations well for me to be here, anyway." Arthur looked skyward. "Oh!"

"Hmm?" Alexander raised a brow.

Britain muttered dumbly, "You Yanks celebrate that garish holiday about this time of the year, correct? Pilgrims and Native Americans and cornucopias…"

The other laughed. "I forget you don't celebrate it! Yes, Thanksgiving is due in about five days, Arthur. We only recently started that tradition again—I'm surprised that you remembered." Alexander hoisted the reigns above his head and let out a loud cry to halt the horses. The carriage arrested itself abruptly and the wheels skidded on the street. Alexander stood and motioned for Britain to step to the ground.

Arthur stared blankly ahead. There was the monument of the western hemisphere—the president's mansion, more commonly known as The White House. It stood tall, firm, and had many parts to it; there were no ornate decorations, no mirrors covered in melted gold, no fountains dripping silver, and no negativity in the air. The house stood atop a brilliant greenbelt with a flagstone walkway and plain wrought-iron gates; alone, a fountain gurgled, but it stood there, solemnly, beautifully, churning the purplish moonlight and whispering to the night creatures that flew above it, whispering in hushed water vibrations that imbued the air with a sense of perpetual efficiency. Arthur's hand had inadvertently snaked its way to his chest; it played against the striations of his heartbeat, and not since the Olive Branch Petition, Arthur felt the slicing, stabbing, heart stopping _pain_ of what it was when Alfred, _his Alfred_, in the dark rainy field, punctuated with lightning, pointed his bloody bayonet at him and rebelliously shouted: "I declare myself independent!"

His green eyes grew hot and tears sprung to his face. Ashamedly, he turned away from Alexander, bowing his head to the beautiful white monument that loomed before him.

Alexander followed Arthur with his eyes. "Arthur—I will take your belongings inside the white house. You'll be staying across from Alfred's room." He picked up the Englishman's bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and began walking.

"Hamilton," Britain spoke lowly. Alexander stopped, not turning around. "I have always known what he was capable of. What you were all capable of. Perhaps if you can see this, you would understand why this is so… Unforgiving."

Alexander solemnly spoke, "I do understand." He sighed, and then mused to the moon, "yet if you only knew how Alfred wept for you, Arthur." He nodded his head and continued striding toward the house, leaving Arthur to stand alone, still clutching his cravat, small teardrops coming from his eyes, electric thoughts zooming in his brain, all trying to find the transmitter that would explicitly tell Arthur just why America needed him _now._

-0-

The date read: 11/18/1805. Monday. The long hand of the clock hung above the "9," the short above the "1." It was nearly two am. It was late, yet Arthur still didn't allow himself the luxury to sleep so easily.

He could only think of Alfred. Where was he? Arthur had thought that he'd find him sleeping, but when he arrived at the guest room and found the door across from him thrown open, he became nervous. Alfred's room was empty. Alexander did mention something about Alfred going to help out that frontiersman—what was his name? Meriwether? Britain racked his brain for the last name. Meriwether… Why did it sound so familiar?

The expedition. Lewis. Meriwether Lewis is the person whom Alfred is helping. Lewis and Clark, that's right—the two explorers who were commissioned to traverse the great Louisianan expanse.

As Britain idled in his thoughts, the abrupt voice of Alexander whipped him out of his dream state.

"Kirkland!" Alexander said. "I was looking from the roof just moments ago, and I spotted the young Alfred walking from the streets. I am going to go fetch him on the carriage, do you care to come?"

After a moment of hesitancy, "Actually, Alexander," he pulled his gloves from the wool bag, slipping them onto his fingers, "I will go retrieve Alfred. You've done so much that I am sure you are exhausted. Additionally, I wouldn't mind speaking to him one-on-one; I haven't seen him in eons."

Alexander eyed Britain wearily, at first, but when he saw the underhanded grin spark across the blonde's face, he politely looked to the floor. "Ah," he shook his head, "you are correct. Well, in that case, I will be lodging in the west wing tonight." Britain tossed a glance, one of surprise, to Alexander; Alexander smiled awkwardly and patted Arthur's shoulder. "My friend, it is within my good judgment to inform you that Alfred, now, has taken to wearing beaver-skinned hats, and they have an _especially_ egregious odor."

Britain nodded. "Yes, well, Alexander, recall that as a pirate, I took to bathing in the sea, where fish and whales excrete themselves." His footsteps sounded on the floor as he began walking to the front doors. He spoke once more, in a low murmur, "I will be here for two weeks—that is more than enough time for me to rid Alfred of his disgusting animal hat." With that last remark, Arthur strode through the hallway, to the front doors, and into the road, where the carriage lay, untouched and unmoving. The horses were standing, peacefully, in their stalls—a quick-access location, Arthur thought.

He stepped toward them. Their ears shot up alarmingly. One of them stepped back. "Shh," Arthur comforted the horses, "you are safe, darlings." He pulled their reigns gently; their hair was coarse under his soft fingertips. The larger one was a deep brown; the other boasted light brown speckles across its abdomen. He gave a small nudge to them, and after eyeing Arthur, followed. Apprehensively, the two ponies stayed behind Arthur. To reassure them, he cooed, "we need to get your Alfred." Their ears perked up and he heard the gentle swish of a tail. "You know Alfred? Good, good—he is just a few blocks down. Come," he walked freely with the horses. Once he saw the carriage's complicated handles and realized how loud the wheels would sound at this time of night, Arthur opted to leave it.

His purple jacket waving in the wind, Arthur placed a firm boot in the foot of the saddle, and while feeling the tentative sturdiness of the horse's back, swung himself atop the creature. The massive, muscular back beneath him was strangely fragile; Arthur clicked his tongue for the second horse—the one with light brown speckles splayed across its back—to follow his lead. Soon, hooves glided across the concrete street, and the moon winked tiny slivers of light as a form of guidance for Arthur and the two horses.

When, after a few minutes of trotting down the Maryland streets, Alfred's distant voice broke through Arthur's reverie, the second horse started galloping at a grueling speed to the voice. Alarmed, Arthur made his way toward Alfred's voice, as well, wondering to whom the American could be speaking.

"Sak-uh-juh… Way? Sak… Wee-uh?" A quiet murmur bubbled as Arthur neared the second horse, which had already stopped running as a signal that Alfred had been found.

"Sak… Lewis, Clark, and Sak-uh-juh-something…" America, who was slovenly clambering along the street with obvious injury marks across his arms, looked up. "Wha?" The speckled horse eagerly trotted to the blonde. "H-hey, Star," he cooed softly as the horse nuzzled him. "I'm glad to see you too—but how did you get here?" Confusion riddled his voice.

As if on cue, Britain brazenly rounded the corner in his purplish glory, letting out a jolty grunt when he drank in the sight of bloodstains splayed across America's white shirtsleeves. Britain's horse whinnied happily and pranced toward America.

"Ah—you dolt! Be gentle, now, can't you see that your owner is injured?" Britain scolded as his horse too-strongly nudged America's arms. He wobbled uneasily on the energetic horse, as it celebrated America's return, without minding Britain's lecture on perfunctory action.

Wincing only slightly, Alfred smiled sweetly up at Arthur, who was still slightly taken aback at the sight of the blonde after years spent apart. "Well—I didn't expect to see you tonight!" America exclaimed. Britain reddened. "But I'm glad you're here. It was getting old having to walk alone all the time…" America peered hopefully at Britain.

The world was luminous for that moment as America's honey-gold expression filtered throughout the night sky, turning everything a sweet amber color, sepia-stained with glowing sienna rays and unadulterated hues of goldenrod. Unable to deny that damned _smile_, Arthur dismounted the horse to properly greet Alfred. Though he had a vast empire and the world's strongest naval forces coupled with the most powerful monarchy in modern history, Arthur, once he turned to face Alfred, arrived at a loss of words. Instead, his stern look melted into one of constrained grief and covert longing. In a mad attempt to disguise his newly-born muteness, Arthur offered his hand, which hung in midair as Alfred openly gazed at him. Suddenly, the mixed image of pine trees, the night sky, firewood, and metal, flooded Arthur's vision as America reached forward to embrace him; his distinct scent spoke volumes of the adventure he had undertook in the whimsical decision to support Lewis and Clark earlier. Feeling Alfred's neck against his own—feeling his slightly dampened body, moist with sweat and most likely blood—Britain allowed his body to relax as he closed his eyes, also wrapping his arms around America's warm body.

Muffled, "I—I've missed you." America softened his body, feeling at once safe and at ease with his former home country pressed against his chest. Always one to express his emotions, Alfred ignored the stinging of the slashes on his arms and chose to soak up Arthur's perfumed English aura: leather, rain, and fresh bread peppered by the sweet scent of Earl Gray tea leaves.

"That's all your feeble mind can come up with after two and a half years?"

America laughed lowly. He had nearly forgotten how biting Arthur could be. "Come on, Britain," he stepped back from the embrace. "What else is there to say? I mean, I guess I could've said, 'hey, England, I'm doing great ever since I kicked your ass in the war!'"

"Not that either, you git!" He blushed madly, pushing the younger nation away from him. America winced, much to England's chagrin. His eyes widened.

"Heh, well I guess that would've been too abrupt, anyway," Alfred concluded. His eyes fell to the floor as a disguise for the obvious pain Arthur had just inflicted on him.

"Ah, well, I—" Britain glanced at America's arms. After blinking rapidly, he sighed. Defeated. "I'm sorry, love."

America shook his head. He thought nothing of it. "It's _fiiine_," he hoisted himself up on Star. "I've wrestled bears and chased buffalos and fought Indians—"

"—you mean Native Americans—"

"—and have been manhandled more times than you could imagine; you think a little push is gonna hurt?" His blue eyes twinkled brilliantly. "I'm invincible, remember?"

Britain rolled his eyes. He marveled at the fact that America was able to, so effortlessly, mount the towering horse with his arms in that awful condition. "So, you are ready to head back, then?" he inquired. He still couldn't quite believe that Alfred was real, standing in front of him.

"Yep, I'm all ready to go!" Star gave a little neigh. "Plus, I'd kill for a bath—my legs are killing me. Hope they don't get infected and give me lockjaw or whatever." America laughed easily, motioning for Britain to hurry.

"What is this beast's name, anyway?" Arthur asked, having just swung his leg over the horse. He ran a lone hand through its mane.

Alfred grabbed Arthur's horse's reigns, and with a quick flick of the wrist, he commanded the two horses to shoot off toward the White House. Their tails flicked gaily. "Yours is Luna!" America shouted heartily. The townhouses whizzed by as the two creatures stampeded through the town; excited, they ran freely and with great enthusiasm, whinnying and neighing for the whole world to hear.

"Id-idiot, why the sudden speed? You nearly killed me!" Arthur bellowed incredulously. Alfred's unexpected command of the horses nearly threw Britain from Luna's back. Had it not been for his quick grasp of England's shirt, the Briton would've most likely become very intimate with the dirt street. It was then that Arthur saw the blood—fresh, cherry-like blood—oozing from America's wrist from underneath his sleeve. Arthur widened his eyes. "America—what the devil happened to you out there?"

Alfred, whose hands were now both attached to Star's reigns, waved off Arthur. "Just some skirmish with a few natives—nothing I can't handle." Yet he kicked Star's sides with increased desperation, a feeling of unease overcoming him. His face began to discolor and Britain fell to unease. The White House peaked over the houses and monuments in mere moments, thankfully; America breathed increasingly faster. Britain, however, did not opt to fall back; rather, he showed off his skills as an equestrian and galloped past America, with Luna's hooves clattering on the rocks, and reached the White House entrance about eight seconds before him. In that window of time, Arthur leapt off the horse and shoved open the heavy, oak set door. He grinded his teeth.

_That bloody git. He is badly wounded._

Star noisily halted a few feet from Arthur. "Britain—talk about impressive!" America smiled through the pain.

"Shut it. Come here, lad. You're weak," he placed his hand on the small of Alfred's back, a guide. "I can't afford for you to get bloody sick, now." He furrowed his brows.

Alfred gave one last attempt. "Really—you don't gotta worry about me. I've had worse, Britain."

Morosely, Britain muttered, "yes, I am quite aware—I inflicted them, you devil," he hissed, painful memories of the Revolutionary War clouding his mind. He slung Alfred's arm over his shoulders and walked with great force toward the entrance of the house. "I'm a bit accustomed to this type of injury—just listen to me, dear. Can you do that, just this one night, Alfred?"

Alfred bowed his head, feeling Arthur support most of his weight. He smiled feebly—the blood loss had begun to sink its teeth into his body. Turning his head to Arthur, Alfred whispered into the Briton's ear, "just this one night—please… don't tell anyone else… or else they won't think I'm so tough anymore."

-0-

Alfred lay unconscious on his bed as England rushed to retrieve alcohol, cloth-based bandages, two sponges, and a basin full of hot water. He returned, and after forcing a mouthful of whiskey down Alfred's throat, he pulled the American to the floor and stripped him of his shirt, wincing at the sight of cuts across his chest, blinking away small droplets of tears incurred by the spectacle of seeing his America sitting with half-lidded eyes and a sheen of azure moonlight floating atop his tanned skin, subduing him; Arthur worked adeptly, soaking the porous sponge in hot, soapy water, then brought the sopping object to Alfred's skin, whispering sweet nothings of 'the old times' to the boy to transform the searing pain into something more bearable, less monstrous. Alfred's cheeks were glistening with streams of salty tears; he sat, barely conscious, registering only pain and only occasionally allowing Britain's soft coos to break through his ever-turning solipsism; cold hands and hot water graced over Alfred's bloody skin, the wounds becoming less swollen and more clean. With a tuft of cotton in hand, Arthur lightly dabbed the length of each one of Alfred's gashes, using his other hand to run his fingers alone America's arm as a way of gentle consolation. Worried eyes paired with heavy breaths, Britain heaved a sigh of relief, his brow coated in sweat; he helped America to his feet. Britain assisted him in sitting on the foot of the bed. He hurriedly rushed to Alfred's oak dresser and pulled a white sleeping shirt from the top drawer; he then grabbed a pair of black pants from the bottom drawer, and walked back to Alfred. He peeled the blood-dampened khakis from Alfred's legs, despite Alfred's sloppy protests. Arthur had to bite his lips when he saw that the blood trickled down to Alfred's legs. Alarmed, he grabbed the sponge from the basin, splashed the darkened water noisily, and haphazardly sopped it up and down America's legs. The water streamed down—there was too much. Britain threw the sponge back into the water and leaned forward, moving his arms out of his purple coat. Without a second thought, he pressed his coat to America's legs, then to his chest, then along his arms, to dry him. The coat soaked the water nicely; blood stained the sleeves. Arthur fitted the loose white shirt over America's messy head of hair, wrestled with his arms to shove them through the sleeves, and after a few attempts, made America stand up so he could pull the black pants up his legs. Sweating profusely, Arthur took in a slow breath as America sat back down. He was still in the clouds. Arthur rose from his knees and softly laid Alfred against the goose feather pillows, paying special attention to his back, observing that the color had returned to the Yankee's face. As he turned to leave the room and clean himself, America's warm hand caught Arthur's pinky finger—delicate—and with that prognostic gesture, Arthur kicked off his boots and collapsed into the silk sheets beside America, his world turning to the clouds before he registered Alfred's beaver-scented head take refuge in the crevice of his neck.

In the morning, sunlight melted across the room, beautifully lighting up Alfred's glasses lying on the nightstand. The two awoke in a tangled, geometric mess; Alfred's arms were clutched loosely around Arthur's waist, one stray leg wrapped in England's; Arthur's left arm was wound around Alfred's back, and his chin nestled itself in the soft warmness of America's straw-colored tresses.

-0-

_Days Later_

When the topic of virginity arose once more, the day before Thanksgiving, America relinquished the uncomfortable memory of him and France—"_That's_ how you managed to get this _damn_ territory?!"—Britain's face transfigured into a deadly epitaph and he spit fire, which resulted in him pushing America from his forefront, demanding that he be left alone for the rest of his day—yet America knew what Britain felt because it hurt him, too, to know that he had to fuck France for Louisiana, so he shook off the painful shoves from the Briton and curled his arms around Arthur and let himself cry and feel the regret and confess to Arthur that it had always, always, always been him—and when Arthur pushed Alfred once more, but this time onto the chaise in the Oval Office, and kissed him with the most affection that America had ever felt from another person, all ruminations of France and all memories of Spain fled from the office and were lost in the sharp sounds of Alfred whimpering Arthur's name—the result of sexual tension of nearly forty years.

-0-

_Celebration of pilgrims and native americans_

With bright eyes, Arthur curiously picked up his turkey leg and held it at eye level. "I can't believe you can eat this whole thing, America."

Mid-chew, Alfred responded, "It—easy!" He grabbed his glass of water to wash down the mashed potatoes. "Why you gotta be such a girl about it? You should've seen my turkey leg last year… Now _that_ was something!" Alfred remembered fondly, garnering glances from the others at the table.

Raising an eyebrow, "Pardon? Did you refer to me as being a 'girl,' America?" Britain asked accusingly. He rolled his eyes. "Refrain from doing so again. Anyway," he placed the turkey leg back on the white china plate, picking up his fork and knife in attempt to dismantle the huge piece of meat. "It amazes me that, in spite of your poor eating habits, you still manage to stay so slim and to—" his eyes shot up as he remembered that there were nearly eleven other people listening to their conversation. _Bollocks_. "t-t-_trim_, yes, uh—you never seem to put on the weight. Quite interesting, I find." He hurriedly sliced a piece of ham and shoved it between his lips, eager to escape the curious stares that were being sent his way.

"Interesting?" Alfred asked. "Hmm, well, I guess it is. It's because I exercise a lot, Britain! Sometimes, I go too hard, even," he shoved a forkful of dripping green beans into his mouth. "S-sort of like last week, y'know, when you first got here, and," he swallowed, "and you had to patch me all up." He smiled happily. America never did realize how his voice boomed.

Alexander's ears perked up. He threw a knowing look at Arthur. "Oh? You never told me what happened after you went to get Alfred, now that I remember, Arthur…" Thomas set down his fork and cast a quizzical glance toward Alexander.

Burning up, Arthur quickly retorted, "Ah, yes, I suppose I forgot!" His nervousness snaked its way up his back. "It was nothing, really—Alfred, I saw, was suffering from wounds inflicted by the Native Americans he encountered when traveling with Lewis, Clark, and Sacagawea—"

"—Oh! _That's_ her name—Sacagawea! How could I forget?" Alfred interrupted giddily.

"—America, would you _mind?_" Britain sneered. "Pardon—anyways, I had to help clean the wounds, and that was that."

America interrupted again. "Are you talking about when you first got here and I was bleeding still, so you went all 'doctor' on me?"

Alexander answered. "Yes, Alfred. He's telling us what happened, because I was supposed to bring you to the White House, but he insisted that he be the one to get you. I thought it to be quite magnanimous, actually."

America's face softened. "Oh." He looked at Britain across the table; their eyes met in a brief scene of blue and green. "That was really nice of you—I still owe you for that, don't I?" America held Britain's gaze, but Arthur looked back down to his food, embarrassed, and still a bit too shy to advertise their… _doings_… with one another. Someone struck the first few notes of_ The Old Bachelor_ on the pianoforte in the adjacent room. Something swiped at Arthur's leg.

_What the devil was that_?

Arthur kicked his legs around under the table, feeling around for whatever object just touched his foot. _How very strange._ America cleared his throat. Britain glanced at him distractedly. He felt a light tap on the top of his boot, then a _foot_, an actual _foot_, he felt, danced its toes down the length of his calf. Frozen, he sat in his chair, unmoving, unsure of how to perceive the situation. Seeing America's bright grin, Britain returned the gesture with a polite smile—then out of nowhere, Arthur felt the same foot run alone his inner thigh _dangerously_ close to his crotch, and he nearly jumped from his seat. He looked up accusingly.

"Er—Alfred?" He hazarded.

Never having seen Arthur so flustered, Alfred winked. "Yes, dear?"

_Damn him._ "Would—would you please pass the bread, lad?"

America smartly handed the basket of bread rolls to Britain. "Anything else I can do for you?"

Under a controlled smile, Britain shook his head 'no.'

"… Yes, Washington! Yes. I _will_ have to do something about the impressment of our soldiers, and it will most likely be in the form of, say, a trade embargo."

Britain's ears perked up.

"I understand, Thomas, but please—hear me," George Washington pleaded, "in order to maintain our diplomacy, and our good relation with Britain, we must act in neutrality!"

"Ever since that damn Frenchman," Thomas sneered, "what was his name? Citizen Genet," he shook his head. "Ever since Citizen Genet has come, we've been facing more issues than ever before, and an embargo would hurt both of the empires across the Atlantic. It makes the most sense, George."

Britain turned to face the two, slightly pissed off. "Excuse me, gentlemen—I'm Arthur Kirkland." At the mention of his name, the two visibly tensed, and he inwardly smiled. "Surely you must not be discussing severing trade relations with Great Britain, now?" He threatened, his voice even and cool. "All American impressment by British soldiers has come to a halt, I thought… and even if there is still some off the coast every now and then, _surely_ you must not think that a bloody _embargo_ would do any good?"

Alexander, upon seeing the panic on America's face, entered the conversation. "Gentlemen, gentlemen—please! This is all half-drunken talk by asses; you are a bit tipsy, I understand. No arguing over the Thanksgiving dinner, now." He stated firmly. "Are we clear?—Thomas, George?"

"Not entirely, but I will dismiss it for Alfred's sake." Thomas concluded, reaching for his glass of red wine.

"You have my word, Hamilton." George childishly snubbed, folding his arms. Alexander sent a winning smile their way.

"Say, perhaps you Yanks can perhaps tell me something useful," Britain interjected. He was unnaturally focused on the prongs of his fork. "'Thanksgiving' dates back to 1611—the Mayflower and all that—and hails itself for showcasing the conjoining of 'civilized white folk' and 'savage Natives,' even if for just one day. Correct?"

Alexander and Alfred said in unison, "Right."

"… So, my question here is, where are those bloody Native Americans now? I don't see any savages dancing in the parlor or hear them clanging on the piano, and I must say, I'm a bit surprised! What happened to all that… damned diversity?"

George cackled loudly. "Oh, Arthur—you're thinking too much!" He sipped some wine from Thomas' glass. "That was nearly two centuries ago! You are lucky to be here, celebrating it now… We've nearly forgotten about the whole event since just a few years ago." He laughed whole-heartedly. Thomas swiped back his glass.

"Is that so? How typical…" Britain closed his eyes.

Then that _damn foot_ barely touched the inner seam of his pant leg and he instinctively shot up from his seat and rattled the table, with his face reddening at an alarming rate.

Alfred's eyes were saucers behind his glasses. He placed his hand over his mouth to prevent himself from exploding in laughter; his shoulders shook as he bit the insides of his lips, a huge grin escaping him.

Alexander, now sitting, looked startled. "Uh—yes, Arthur?"

"Er—well, yes, I was wondering if—"

"—if we have any pie for dessert! Which we do," America added slyly. "Come on, I'll go with you." He turned to the rest of the table. "Is cherry good for everyone?"

James Madison spoke up. "Could you also fetch the pecan?"

"'Course, James! Anyone else?" Alfred was met with silence. Taking that as an affirmation, he sent a sunny smile to the men and marched toward the kitchen. He and Arthur walked from the dining room and _oh_, once they were out of sight, Arthur was going to kick his ass.

Upon entering the ivory-colored kitchen, Arthur was hit with a variety of punchy scents: blueberry floated freely and scents of cherry mixed in with the steam, but the light mist of flour, shimmying down from the ceiling, created an arctic-like scene which he found to be quite extraordinary. So flamboyant and clever. So utterly _American_. Arthur growled. The door behind them clicked shut.

"Just _what_," he seethed, gripping the collar of America's shirt, "the bloody hell did you think you were doing, you twit?"

America, not used to being _shoved_ against cabinetry, made a face of surprise. "Uh—um, well…" He looked sideways. "Hey—it's not that big 'o deal! Calm down, Brit—"

Arthur shoved his lips onto Alfred's, silencing him. Rough and a bit too forceful, Arthur widened his mouth so that he could run his tongue along the rows of Alfred's perfectly straight teeth. Alfred leaned into Arthur, also fighting for dominance; his teeth danced along Arthur's lower lip like staccato beats of rain. He inhaled deeply and used the motion to encircle Arthur, pull his hips into his own, and bring his pictorials forward. America's body was warm like sunlight and his lips tasted of tart cranberries; England licked his lips greedily and bit down on his bottom lip. Britain tore through America's embrace and grabbed the back of his sweaty neck, pulling the Yankee's face closer to his, and firmly held America between himself and the cabinets. England had to stand on his toes to subdue America like this and was forced to use his full body weight to keep Alfred down; but, after feeling England's sharp hipbones ram into his own and after feeling _England's_ hands prowl his body and after feeling _England_'s sharp nails scratch at his chest, Alfred was sure it was the most erotic experience he'd ever had.

With spit dripping down his chin, Britain pulled back and hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A bit more aroused but still equally as annoyed with America, Britain smirked and stepped back. Evaluative.

Somewhat dazed, America blinked rapidly. Britain never noticed how long his eyelashes were.

"You're a lot hotter when you're mad at me, Arthur." America playfully joked. "I mean, if I can get that kind of service from poking your buttons, then I can't even imagine what would happen if I did something that was _actually_ bad…" Mockingly, he looked off dreamily.

Britain rolled his eyes. "Idiot. Did you forget about when you told me about France?" He finished in a sour tone.

"I don't want to think about that," Alfred said lightly. He rocked forward, closing his eyes. "Don't… move…" Alfred moved toward Arthur painfully slow; delicately, he laced his fingers into England's, smiled briefly, and landed on the Briton's lips with a soft, petal-like kiss. Tilting his head sideways, he deepened the kiss. Britain reddened. He secretively adored the American's romantic streak. Alfred lowered his lips to Arthur's jawline, leaving a glistening trail of spit in his wake. The Briton's skin was soft as velvet and smelled of brown sugar; Alfred slid his mouth to Arthur's ear. He left numerous light kisses along his earlobe, dabbing the crevice of his neck and jaw with small gestures of the tongue. Arthur brought his head backward, reveling in the tingling pleasure racing down from his shoulders to his hips.

"Mmm, Alfred…" Britain purred, all leisure. His body hummed with delight from his toes to his head. "Sometimes, America… I really do think… that…" Arthur trailed off. Alfred moved to his collarbone. He kissed and sucked Britain's skin softly, taking pleasure in how his name sounded when it dripped from England's voice in that hushed and ambient timbre.

"… Think what, Arthur?"

"Mmm…" Britain fluttered his eyes open, returning to earth. "Sometimes, I think that I may… actually… er—nev-nevermind," he concluded while shaking his head. Alfred frowned.

He brought himself back to eyelevel with England. "What were you going to say?" His blue eyes were geysers.

_Oh my lord_. England nervously flitted his eyes around America. "N-nothing, America!" He laughed. The smile reached his eyes. "It's fine, lad, really… Now, where are those, um, pies?"

"Pies, really? You're trying to divert the attention to food?"

"… Isn't that why we came to the kitchen, Alfred?"

America frowned. "That's not the point…" He trailed off, somewhat frustrated. Britain walked to the island of the kitchen with a straightened back. He seemed embarrassed.

After examining the tins sitting atop the counter, Britain found the pecan pie. "Ah—here they are, Alfred!" He whipped around to face him only to be stopped mid-turn. America stood, domineering, but tenderly ran his hands along Britain's forearms. A look of longing adorned his visage.

"Please—don't be hesitant to say anything to me." He brought himself even closer to Arthur, successfully cornering him against the kitchen island. Suddenly, his voice dropped an octave. "I would like to know what you have to say."

Marveling at the youth's unexpected genuineness, Britain fumbled for words. "Ah, um—well, America, you see…" His skin erupted in goose bumps from Alfred's soft touch on his arms. "I want to talk to you… But I don't know how to—er—vocalize it." A faint blush blossomed on the apples of his cheeks.

Somewhat deviously, America removed his glasses. He walked to the sink and placed his glasses atop a lone saucer, then easily switched the water faucet on. "You know, Britain," he rubbed the bridge of his nose while slowly advancing on Arthur. "Words aren't the only way to show how you feel." He stopped inches away from Arthur.

Britain sensed it. He flitted his eyes behind him, seeing about twenty pies sprawled out on the counter. He looked back to America, who stood in all of his suit-wearing glory with those delectable shoulders and his signature smile and—Arthur abruptly about-faced and, in one clean swipe, pushed nearly all of the pies to the tiled floor.

He roughly grabbed America's collar and pulled him to the island. With his back against the counter, Britain confessed. "You dolt—you have this knack of making me so embarrassed, and I detest it." He smirked. "But even though you _are_ sometimes an idiot and I _highly_ disagree with how you acquired Louisiana, I am still forced to say…" He looked America directly in the eye. "I do, indeed, love you, darling."

"Good." America expertly maneuvered himself about Britain; he mashed his lips onto England's while sliding down his black jacket. England messily ripped apart America's button-up shirt, uncaring and desperate; his hands soon felt Alfred's exposed and sweaty skin. Flexing his stomach and groaning out Arthur's name, Alfred tore off England's garish cravat and immediately began to undo his sharp-looking leather belt. Arthur inhaled sharply through his nose; once Alfred had successfully tossed his belt to the floor, Arthur also reached for the other's pants and skillfully undid the belt and button in a smooth snap.

The two looked at each other curiously; Britain held a look of inquiry whereas America's eyes spoke volumes of what he intended to do to the Briton. England, seeing this, laid his moist lips to America's neck, and soon Alfred was trailing his tongue down England's stomach and England couldn't stifle his pleasure-induced moans. America wrapped his fingers around Arthur's cock and began pumping it, fast; his own erection grew stiffer with each one of Arthur's cries of his name. His hand slick with pre-cum, Alfred leaned in to kiss England. Arthur, at this point, was on the verge of cumming; sensing this, Alfred ceased motion and leaned over the other and looked at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Britain…" Said nation gazed eagerly at America, an eyebrow arched. America continued, "You too…" He winked and motioned downwards. "You sure?"

Short of breath and bothered, Britain answered hastily. "Y-yes, I'm quite sure!" And with that last answer, Alfred plunged himself into Arthur and Alfred couldn't believe how amazing the sensation was nor could he believe that _this was England_ and felt imbued with passion. Arthur moaned in a daze; he wrapped his long legs around Alfred's sweaty body, allowing for deeper penetration. Alfred slid in and out freely in erratic spurts; an electrifying shock ran up his spine each time he plunged into Arthur and his muscles were starting to give out simply because _this was fucking England_. Sweat burst out in tiny droplets across his face and his silent breathing became heavy and came out in heaves. Arthur, however, had never felt this before; the sheer size of America inside of him was incredible and the constant slapping of skin on skin turned him on even more. He propped himself up with one elbow on the countertop; his other hand clung onto America's muscular shoulder, and when Alfred would fuck him with just a little bit too much force, he would slip and accidentally scrape off skin from the American's shoulder. The sex was a little bit rough, a little bit rushed and spontaneous, for the both of them; Alfred felt too too _good_ and in turn stopped paying attention to his balance and the placement of his arms and instead just fucked Arthur as fast as he could, whereas Arthur kept tightening his stomach to keep from crying out from the simultaneous pain and pleasure of being dominated by Alfred like this. Moisture hung thick in the air and when Alfred pulled out of Arthur, the two finally came and the semen was on the counter and the tile and the place was such a _mess_ but the two couldn't care less; they collapsed into one another, chests heaving, foreheads coated in salty sweat, and still unsatisfied, their lips found one another's and they continued to roughly make out even after the water spilled from the sink and onto the floor.

-0-

As soon as the abrupt clang of metal pie tins hitting the tiled floor broke through the conversations in the dining room, Alexander looked suspiciously to the door. The others followed suit. With large eyes, they all watched as the doorknob to the French-style doors of the kitchen rattled for a brief moment. Then they heard that the sink was suddenly turned on; the white noise of the water drowned out any sound from the kitchen.

James ventured. "Are… are we not getting any of that pecan pie, Alexander?" His voice sounded tentative, like he had stumbled upon an epiphany in his mind but was too afraid to voice it.

Alexander, however, already knew. He sighed. "No, James, I'm afraid we will not—come now! I've been told that there are freshly-baked pastries available to former presidents at the Bakery…" He observed everyone still sitting. "Well? Shall we go retrieve some pie from Anabelle's Bakery, just down the rue?"

This time, George stammered. "A-Alexander, we should be able to go into the kitchen! For god's sake!" He threw his hands up. A few others pounded the table to prove his point.

Wearily, "Oh, but do you really want to?" Alexander motioned toward the door. "Do you, General Washington, wish to _bother_ both Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland, when they have made it _clear_ that they don't wish to be bothered?" A hint of cunning was in his voice. "Forget those pastries; let us get ones _elsewhere!"_

Realization set in. Deep. "Oh!" George blushed. He didn't know where to look. "Um, well then, we can… Er—let us all go to Anabelle's, please!" He commanded. Everyone stood.

As the last of the people trailed out of the dining room, Alexander shook his head sheepishly.

Water trickled from under the crack of the door into the dining room.

-0-

It was evening now. Thanksgiving decorations had been pulled from the rooms by the house servants, the orange-colored sun had set behind teeming gray cumulous clouds, and Alfred, wearing a loose-fitting shirt and trousers, sat in the piano room with Alexander and George, laughing.

"Wait, wait—you mean to tell me that this 'Lawrence' was actually someone you were involved with, Alexander?" George asked incredulously.

Reddening, Alexander stammered. "O-only just for a short bout of time! I am still terribly upset that Thomas fed that to the press…" He looked off.

America, seeing his obvious discomfort, eased the situation. "Aw, come on, George! I totally get it, Alexander." He nodded his head good-naturedly. "I mean, if it was supposed to be a private affair, then it makes sense that you and Jefferson aren't on… the best of terms…"

George concluded, "Hmm… Well, that _is_ a valid point…" He glanced at Hamilton. "It is a shame, though, that you and Thomas are at odds… The two of you would make an unbeatable pair, intellectually." George nodded. He stood from his velvet-covered chair and darted to the piano. "Say, how about some of that popular Hungarian music?"

"Hungarian?" A new voice questioned. Alfred craned his neck to see Britain walking in from the hallway. "Do you mean the work of Chopin or Mozart, George?" He strode into the room. "In either case, I'm afraid neither was Hungarian, but rather Austrian and Polish." He cast a bored look.

"Oh! Arthur—Kirkland," George didn't expect for him to come in the room. "Well—thank you. I will try to remember my composers next time…" He smiled and struck the first chord to Mozart's Sonata in D major, no. 448. After observing how America straightened his back and how Britain began spouting his knowledge of worldly musicians, Alexander Hamilton concluded that this situation best be handled with want of his presence, and subsequently excused himself from the piano room.

"Beautiful music, isn't it?" Alfred asked, motioning to George.

Arthur nodded. He held his chin in the palm of his hand, dreamily gazing at the piano. "It is, it is…" He shut his eyes peacefully, and Alfred nearly shot up from his chair to go wrap his arms around Arthur's torso because _he_ was just so damn beautiful.

England spoke again, eyes still closed. "I remember when I first learned this song—it was very, very long ago. It brings back wonderful memories, love." He reveled in the thick notes of Mozart's sonata.

Suddenly, raindrops touched the windows and the music stopped. George slowly turned his head to look outside. "Well! How about that? Rain." He smiled. "It doesn't usually rain this time around…" He turned his gaze back to Alfred and Arthur; the two were gazing fiercely at each other, and their eyes were glistening. "Say," George began. "Alfred—how about you come take over the piano for me? The rain tires me… and Alexander mentioned something, earlier, about me helping him draft a new bill of assumption…"

Alfred's eyes lit up. "Sure thing, George! Feel free to go to whatever with Alexander. Just remember to come have me check it out before anything happens with it!"

"Of course, Alfred." George nodded politely and walked from the room.

Alfred rose from his chair and languidly walked to the piano. He trailed his fingers along the dark-colored maple wood; the ivory-coated keys were hard and reflected the pattern of light shining in the room through the window. Once settled in the leather piano bench, Alfred lightly stretched out his fingers. He felt them burn slightly; after the momentary pain subsided, he struck a resonate A-flat and soon his fingers became as fluid as water and his body moved in sync to the rhapsody that was Beethoven's _Pathetique Sonata movement no. 2._

Britain sat up, stunned. He wanted to cry. "Since—since _when_?"

Alfred held the pedal down, sustaining the kaleidoscopic notes, and peered up at Arthur through his glasses. "I don't know."

Britain blinked away the few teardrops he felt forming in his eyes. After sitting in a stupor for a moment longer, Arthur stood, and then made his way to the grand piano. He surreptitiously wound his way behind Alfred so that he could observe the American's dexterous fingers dance flawlessly atop the ivory-plated keys. Alfred's body, too, moved with the flow and colors of the music; he let it rule him, command him, will him.

Arthur sat down beside Alfred, still stunned. He gently placed his hand atop the pianist's; Alfred stopped playing, again holding down the pedal to sustain the echo-like piano notes that floated in the air of the room.

"Simply incredible." Arthur admitted.

Alfred shrugged. "It's really not that hard. It looks like it is, but I'm not that good of a player."

"You are modest… I know you are because when I was as good as you, I was also modest…" Arthur tentatively laid a finger on the piano. He pressed down a black key. "But you know, I'm still curious about something, America."

America smirked. "Yes?"

"You never did tell me why you needed me here so urgently, as you expressed in your telegram."

Again, Alfred shrugged. He blushed, too. "Well, I—I just… you know—missed you. I… I _needed _you." He laughed nervously. "I mean, with the disarray of the United States and having to trek across unknown territory with two colonists and an Indian—not to mention the whole fiasco with France—I got… I don't know, I guess I just was lonely."

Britain, taken aback by this onslaught of sentimentality and unused to this emotional vulnerability, rolled his eyes embarrassedly. "That… that's good, America." And it was good, too. Because despite there being diplomatic tensions still racing between the two, and in spite of France fucking _his_ America and Lewis and Clark failing to aptly protect Alfred, it was the tacit truth that seeing one another was probably the best decision that either of them had made since the Olive Branch Petition ordeal—and the I-hate-you-but-love-you-more sex was that golden bonus, the rabbit's foot, the treaty between two nations.

"Good? It better be fucking good."

"Shut it, you bloody Yank."


End file.
